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THE GOLDEN LILY. 

























PRESENTLY, WHEN THE QUEEN HAD SEEN ALL SHE 
WOULD, HER EYES RESTED FOR A MOMENT UPON ME.” 

(See page 71.) 


THE GOLDEN LILY 


BY 

KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON, 

Author of “ Her Father's Daughter '' 

11 The Queen's Page'' etc. 


NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO: 

BENZIGER BROTHERS, 

Printers to the Holy Apostolic See. 

1902. 





*tor 6*2 

'03 

Copyright, 1899, by Benzigkr Brothers. 


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CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. — The Cottage on the Portsmouth 

Road 7 

II. — The Robbers in the Wood 21 

III. — The Abbey op Golden Cross 34 

IV. — Sir Anthony a-Dale 50 

V. — The Queen’s Visit 62 

VI. — The Lily-Cup 74 

VII. — The Trial 85 

VIII. — The Acquittal 100 




















THE GOLDEN LILY. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE COTTAGE OH THE PORTSMOUTH ROAD. 

King Hal was yet reigning in those far- 
away days, when I first set eyes on my be- 
loved friend and master, Giovanni Battista 
Ferrari, who was afterwards to become 
famous as the Queen’s orfever, and such an 
artist in the precious metals as was only sec- 
ond to Master Benvenuto Cellini, of honored 
memory. 

I, Piers Borrodaile, was then a happy ur- 
chin, sitting in the sun by the trellised porch 
of my grandam’s cottage on the Portsmouth 
Road, and moulding, of plastic clay, candle- 
sticks and cups such as were used in the' holy 
services at the Priory, where I served Mass 
of mornings. 

True, the clay had no consistency, nor 
7 


8 The Cottage on the Portsmouth Road. 

knew I at that tender age what it needed to 
weld it, bnt was content if I made myself 
rough shapes of beauty, withal though they 
perished faster than the sweet peas in my 
grandam’s beds. 

These same sweet peas, with phlox, con- 
volvulus and lupins, I was moulding about 
the base of my candlestick of yellow mud, 
when a shadow fell upon my work. I looked 
up and saw Giovanni Battista, at that time 
a wild churl, with eyes of night embedded 
like jewels in a face brown and haggard, and 
overhung with long, straggling locks of mid- 
night black. 

A wild apparition, yet, little lad as I was, 
I had no fear. Such eyes, shy and lovely, I 
knew in the wood creatures, the rabbit scur- 
rying to his hole, the squirrel swinging from 
the hazel-hough, the thrush that peeped and 
was gone. It was not likely I should he 
frightened. 

Instead I held out to him the thing I had 
produced. His eyes kindled as he took it and 
turned it about. 


The Cottage on the Portsmouth Road. 


9 


“Ah, brava! brava!” he cried under his 
breath, yet I heard him and saw by the light- 
ing of his hungry face that he was pleased. 

“You made it?” he said, repeating the 
simple words with as much difficulty as a 
child its first lesson. 

“It and many more !” I cried, delighted at 
the pleasure in his face. “Come with me and 
you will see,” pulling him towards the little 
shed at the back of the beehives, which my 
friend, Giles the carpenter, had made me 
against rainy days — a mere penthouse of a 
thing, but it kept the wet from my figures of 
clay, where they stood mouldering to their 
fall. 

“Ah, ah!” He cried over the things as 
though they were dead birds, or something 
that once had life. 

I stood watching him with my hands be- 
hind my back and my head bowed as I had 
seen grandfathers do. I had lived so much 
with the old that unconsciously I aped their 
ways. Suddenly he grasped at me with his 
lean paws and, lifting me up, kissed me, and 


io The Cottage on the Portsmouth Road. 

I could see that the tears stood in his 
eyes. 

I thought the wild fellow had lost his wits, 
and the manhood in me, albeit I was but 
seven years old, revolted at being hissed. 
Therefore I cried out, half angrily, half 
fearfully : 

“Set me down, you unmannerly rogue, or 
I shall have at you with my grandam’s 
cudgel.” 

He put me down so gently then that I was 
ashamed, but my sudden cry had brought 
my grandam to the spot. 

“And what is this?” she cried, leaning 
upon her staff and breathing fast. 

“It is that I make homage to the little 
boy,” he said, “and he not understand. I 
am of Italy, the country of artists. Your lit- 
tle boy’s work is beautiful, excellent! He 
will rise — he will be a master. Therefore do 
I make him homage.” 

My grandam looked at him as if she did 
not understand him. 

“ ? Tis no harm to the child,” she said. 


The Cottage on the Portsmouth Road. 


ii 


“He keeps from mischief working his mud- 
pies.” 

“Ah !” cried the Italian, interrupting her, 
“it is more than that.” 

Suddenly he staggered, and then righted 
himself by the wall. 

“It is nothing,” he said hastily; “a vertigo . 
from the heat. ’Twould he a kindness if 
you were to give me a cup of milk, and Jesu, 
Maria reward you.” 

“You are a bag o’ bones,” said mygrandam, 
clutching his wrist. “And if this hoy’s father 
were but alive you and he were of an age. 
Therefore, for his sake, and for their sakes 
you name, will I feed and clothe you.” 

She drew the Italian with her around the 
corner of the house and within the kitchen, 
which was our living-room and right pleas- 
ant, being full of the warm sun and with a 
comfortable smell of baking — for, indeed, my 
grandam had not yet rinsed the flour from 
her hands. Likewise Whitethroat, our mis- 
sel-thrush, sang sweetly in his cage that 
hung within the porch, and before the fire 


12 The Cottage on the Portsmouth Road. 

which burned for cooking’s sake this summer 
day Tray, our dog, and Tib, our cat, basked 
together. 

My grandam pushed the Italian within the 
chair where my grandfather had sat so long. 
I noticed that he sat there as though he were 
faint. Even now across the lapse of years 
I can see how the red geraniums in the win- 
dow seemed to nod by his brown face and 
make a harmony. But certainly he was pit- 
eous enough, with his lean hands stretched 
across his knees, his clothes ragged and 
dusty, and the cavernous hollows of his face, 
which had assumed an eager aspect as he 
smelt the good food. 

My grandam set out on the table a slice of 
pastry, a mug of brown beer, and a wheaten 
loaf. The Italian looked towards the food 
as if he would spring upon it; but my gran- 
dam said, in her gentlest voice : 

“You shall have it little by little, my poor 
boy, and then you will sleep, and afterwards 
you will eat again.” For she had the wisdom 
to know that he was starving. 


The Cottage on the Portsmouth Road. 13 

I watched him, fascinated, as he ate ; and 
yet I think he moderated his appetite to my 
grandam’s will. Though when he had done, 
eating to the last hungrily, and thanked 
her, his eyes still begged for more. 

After that he slept, much to my impa- 
tience, for I wanted to know more of the 
vagrant who had found my figures so pleas- 
ing. But yet he slept till the sun was low; 
and while he was sleeping my grandam rum- 
maged in the oak chest where she had laid 
away the garments my grandfather wore, 
with other things at which I guessed dimly, 
for it had not often been opened in my pres- 
ence. At last she selected doublet and hose 
of stout homespun, and laid them out in her 
room upstairs until the stranger should 
waken. 

She talked to herself while she was doing 
this, and I, who was used to sitting .quiet in 
the chimney-corner, imagining faces and fig- 
ures in the fire, listened without wonder. 

The clothes she set aside were my father’s, 
and I gathered from her sighs she found it 


14 The Cottage on the Portsmouth Road. 

grievous to part with them. And as she 
turned over one or the other she recalled to 
her old mind memories. 

Below the clothes of the man were others, 
more worn and smaller. 

“And this/’ she said, “he did wear the first 
day he was come to boy’s estate, and went 
wood-cutting with his father in the forest. 

“And this was his jerkin on May-day, 
when they danced round the May-pole and 
went gathering knots of May-blossoms in the 
fields.” 

And so on, till it was a calendar of my 
father’s years; and I marvelled within my- 
self why she should remember and keep the 
poor, threadbare things as though they were 
silk and satin, being little and hard of heart. 

But, as I have said, when the setting sun 
streamed in at the windows the stranger 
awoke and sat up on the settle. 

“Why, pardon, mother !” he said. “I have 
slept overlong. ’Tis time I was a-going.” 

“Seven hours you have slept, child,” she 
replied. “But Heaven forbid you should go 


The Cottage on the Portsmouth Road . 15 

forth hungry again, and with your shanks 
showing through your rags in a way were 
scarce decent. Get you to the trough and 
wash, and then you shall clothe yourself in 
the seemly garments of my Willie, this 
hoy’s father, who is dead these many years. 
And the Lord’s Mother do the like to my 
son !” she ended, half under her breath. 

When the youth had washed and dressed 
there was as great a difference in him as 
might well be, for the wildness was all gone, 
and despite the ensign of hunger in his face, 
he was personable, with the gentle dream- 
iness upon his dark eyes that has been dear 
to me this many a year. 

I noticed then that while he sat at supper my 
grandam watched him closely; and observing 
that he made the sign of the cross both at 
the beginning and the ending of his meal, 
she nodded many times as though this were 
to her a source of satisfaction. 

Again, when Tray stood upon his knee and 
nuzzled into his hand, she seemed well 
pleased ; and often I have heard her say that 


1 6 The Cottage on the Portsmouth Road. 

the knowledgeable beasts are the surer 
judges of men. Tib, too, who was of a re- 
tiring and proud spirit, took bits from his 
fingers, and my grandmother nodded the 
more to herself, again looking well pleased. 

At last our meal was finished, and Gio- 
vanni, as I shall call him henceforth, rose 
to depart. 

“Good mother,” he said, reaching for his 
staff, “a blessing he upon you and yours, and 
may the Infant Jesus do the like to you the 
which you have done to me.” 

And yet he limped footsore to be a trav- 
eller. 

Then my grandam reached forth and put 
her hand upon his arm. 

“Stay, poor lad,” she said, and her voice 
was very gentle. “Rest with us to-night. 
We are hut an old woman and a young 
child, and these are wild times, yet I think 
there is no guile behind those eyes.” 

Giovanni kissed her hand then, pouring 
out a wild flood of thanks and prayers, and, 
as she had said, again took his seat. 


The Cottage on the Portsmouth Road. 17 

That night the wind blew and the rain 
fell, and as it grew late a thunderstorm 
broke. But we hardly knew it, we three, sit- 
ting there discussing of many things, while 
the fire burnt low and the cottage filled with 
shadows. 

Giovanni talked and we listened, and his 
slow and difficult speech was in my ears very 
sweet. It lulled me in my corner of the set- 
tle till I was half asleep, and my grandam 
came and tucked me in, calling me her poor 
lamb, as was her wont. But’ yet I heard 
what was said. 

The Italian told her of his own land, and 
his own people, and how that he was 
orphaned like me, and had left Milan in the 
train of a rich lord with the design of reach- 
ing London and finding there one of his own 
craft (which was that of an orfever or gold- 
smith) who would befriend him he knew. 

But presently, my lord lingering overlong, 
and still drifting southward, he had taken 
service in an orange sloop trading from Ca- 
diz, with the design of reaching France, to 


1 8 The Cottage on the Portsmouth Road. 

be a step further on his journey. He had 
been cast away, and forced to join a troop of 
mercenaries, whose ways, he said, showing 
his white teeth, loved him not. So that he 
left them at last, and after many hardships 
had reached England, and yet travelled in 
fear lest he should be made a soldier against 
his will. 

"It is not so many days,” said my gran- 
dam, "from here to London town, and when 
you have rested and set out you will travel 
by night, and find the shelter of thickets by 
day, and so escape the bands of men that 
roam about seeking to add to their numbers.” 

I can see her withered old face, with its 
keen, bright eyes watching him with a tender 
regard, and it seems to me now that she saw 
in him not the youth she had befriended, but 
the s<an she had lost. 

It was late, I know, when the cottage slept, 
and I undressed myself and fell asleep while 
yet I muttered my rhyme to my invisible 
guardians of the night. 

I slept sweet, though my dreams were of 


The Cottage on the Portsmouth Road. 


19 


wandering and fighting, and yet again of 
chasing the most lovely chalices, and mould- 
ing dishes fit for a queen. When I awoke 
the Italian was abroad in the dewy garden 
sweet with last night’s rain, and I joined him 
there in the glittering morning air. When 
I came up with him he was handling curious- 
ly some of the toys of my making, and as I 
came shouting to him he turned and looked 
at me with great sweetness. 

“Little Piers,” he said, speaking my name 
very soft, “would you like to go with me to 
London town and make these pretty things 
in gold and silver?” 

“That would I!” cried I, flinging myself 
upon him. 

“Well, then,” said he, “one day you shall 
come, but not yet, for how would the cot- 
tage and the grandam do without you, little 
lad? But when you are a man grown, come 
to me. You will find me in the street of 
the Lombardy merchants, not far from the 
Chepe in London town. Ask for me by my 
name — Giovanni Battista Ferrari. By that 


20 The Cottage on the Portsmouth Road. 

time it shall be known in the ears of 
men.” 

He flung hack his dark mane, and I saw 
his face, thin yet, but not hungry like yes- 
terday, and it seemed to me a rare, hand- 
some one with the glow of his pride and his 
faith in himself upon it. 

“That will I, Giovanni Battista !” I cried. 
“And I would the time were now.” 

“Do not say it, little lad,” he answered. 
“There is a river to be forded, and a valley 
crossed, ere that shall be. Rest you a 
while with the quiet old patient heart, amid 
the flowers and the sunshine, and in the day 
of rest seek me out.” 

Being only a child I did not understand 
him, yet asked no questions, being satisfied 
that his words meant I was to come to him 
one day. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE ROBBERS IR THE WOOD. 

Not* when my grandmother had been laid 
to rest I returned to the cottage, with Tray, 
now an old dog, wagging a sorrowful tail at 
my heels ; and entering in, I sat down on the 
settle where so oft she had comforted me, to 
think upon my future. 

It was no difficult knot to unravel, for I 
may say that never, since I had last laid eyes 
on Giovanni Battista, had I forgotten that 
he had said I was to seek him out, or had 
doubted his power, as well as his willing- 
ness, to befriend me. 

My grandam, too, shared my strange con- 
fidence, and I think it soothed her failing 
years to know that I had a friend ready to 
help me. We were but an old woman and a 
very simple lad, or we had hardly believed in 
the memory of a little kindness lasting so 


21 


22 


The Robbers in the Wood. 


long, and proving a key to so much. How- 
ever, as after events proved, we were justi- 
fied of our faith. 

The cottage was mine, and the furniture 
it contained, with my grandam’s little hoard 
of savings. I had no fear that I should be 
driven hack to its shelter, yet the place was 
dear to me for the sake of her who was gone 
and my peaceful childhood, and I was re- 
solved not to be without a lien on it. There- 
fore, I had offered it as a home to Mistress 
Anne Varney, an excellent poor widow, who 
would keep it clean and dry, and would re- 
ceive me if it pleased me at any time to re- 
turn. 

She, good soul, with much delicacy had 
left me alone in the silent house; and there 
I sat with the dog’s head upon my knee, for- 
lorn and sick at heart. My clothes were al- 
ready packed in a bundle for me to carry 
slung across my shoulders, and my coins 
were safely hidden away in the lining of my 
jerkin. I looked to have some hardship on 
the road, for the monasteries that used to be 


The Robbers in the Wood. 


23 


the poor man’s hostel were now closed up 
and their inmates dispersed. But I did not 
fear robbers much, though their numbers had 
been greatly increased by the starving beg- 
gars who had been cast upon their wits and 
strength for bread through the suppression 
of these same monasteries. Yet who would 
harm me, a youth in threadbare clothes, and 
with but a few other garments as poor for all 
his pack? 

However, as I sat there I . recalled the 
words of my grandam to the Italian how he 
should travel, and it came to me that I 
would do likewise. An odd thing it was 
that I was timid rather for my dog than for 
myself, lest he be left masterless, for Tray I 
must take with me, or he would die of fret- 
ting; though Tib, as is the cat’s manner, 
would, I knew, be just as happy with Mis- 
tress Varney as ever she had been with us. 

I set out, therefore, with my poor comrade 
at sunset of the August evening, and was 
glad my journey was to be in this time of 
year, since to journey by night would be 


24 


The Robbers in the Wood. 


pleasant, and there would be no hardship 
in resting in the woods or in a deep dyke by 
day. 

We covered, I should say, some twenty 
niiles that night, and were right glad when at 
length we reached a copse, very thick and 
surrounded by fields where I thought we 
might with safety rest. 

But first we breakfasted, and great joy it 
was to me on opening the pack Mistress Var- 
ney had pressed on me at the last, to discover 
that it contained several cuts of excellent 
cold pork, with buttered slices of home-made 
bread, and also a slab of cheese, some hard- 
boiled eggs, and a stout bottle of home- 
brewed ale. 

I thanked God for these good things, 
which should last us, I reckoned, a half of 
our journey. For men had grown so savage 
and afeared of their fellow-men in those 
days that I hardly dared venture near a 
farmhouse for fear of the mastiffs, or worse, 
of the farmer’s guns. Alas ! with too good 
reason the poor had come to be regarded as 


The Robbers in the Wood. 25 

thieves, rogues, marauders, and even possi- 
ble murderers. 

After we had fed, being very tired, Tray 
and I slept in a bed of moss, sunk as in a 
well below a covert of thicket. 

I was awakened at first by the faint growl- 
ing of the dog, and my first impulse was to 
put my hand on his muzzle and still him, for 
I scented I knew not what danger. The 
wise creature at once was still, and though he 
yet bristled, he hut thrust his head into my 
breast, and I knew he would be silent. Then, 
peering out, I saw that the thicket was sur- 
rounded by armed men, and as I gazed upon 
them heartily grateful was I that the cover 
was so tangled, and our bed so sunk that all 
but my eyes were below the surface. 

They were a wilder and more villainous- 
looking lot than ever I had imagined; and 
their belts were so hung with daggers and 
firearms that as the sun glinted upon them 
their dust-stained jerkins fairly winked 
again. 

They had been mounted, for their horses 


26 


The Robbers in the Wood. 


stood about among the trees grazing peace- 
fully; their masters had flung themselves 
down upon the ground, and one fellow pro- 
ducing a set of dice, the villains began to 
throw for what I saw to be gold-pieces. An- 
other fellow carried to those seated wines in 
skins and leather bot^es, which seemed a 
mighty curious drink for such scullions; and 
so intent were all eyes upon the game that I 
was presently emboldened to lift my head a 
little higher and gaze about me at the scene. 

Then I saw seated on a knoll at a little dis- 
tance to the left of me two men, conversing 
earnestly, who somehow filled me with cur- 
iosity. The one appeared to be a person of 
quality. His doublet was of velvet, his hose 
were silken, and he wore a jewelled feather 
in his cap. His manner to the other was 
haughty, and from the glances he cast upon 
him would be haughtier if he had not some 
reason to propitiate him. 

The other I took to be the captain of them 
who played at dice, for like them he was 
rough and ill-favored, and wore rough gar- 


The Robbers in the Wood. 


27 


ments — yet he looked to have once been gal- 
lant. And presently, when a squabble arose 
among them over a cast of the dice he sprang 
from his seat with an oath, and laid about 
him among the gamblers with the flat of his 
sword so lustily that it was rather like a 
man punishing brutes for some brute offence 
than a man quelling the quarrels of men. 
And the rough fellows, though they slunk 
away and scowled upon him in anger, looked 
no more rebellious than a kennel of dogs. 

Now there came upon me an itching cur- 
iosity as to what bond might exist between 
the nobleman, as I took him to be, and a 
captain of villains. Growing presently 
wearied of watching the chances of the dice, 
I was tempted to satisfy my overweening de- 
sire. 

Therefore, still holding Tray to my breast, 
I wriggled like a snake upon the bed of moss 
and dragged myself through its recesses till 
I was near the arch-plotters, for so I felt sure 
they must be. There was so much noise 
among the gamesters that any slight move- 


28 


The Robbers in the Wood, 


ment of mine was not to be heard, and my 
jerkin of Lincoln green was the very color of 
the moss. Therefore I was enabled to come 
close to the knoll on which the two wretches 
were seated, and upon which my thicket en- 
croached, without observation. 

At first I could make but little of their 
words. Two or three names of persons or 
places were repeated over and over, and these 
stuck like a burr in my memory. Of some 
place called Ferrer’s Oaks they spoke con- 
stantly, and of a person called Sir William 
Danby. 

That there was robbery and murder in the 
air I doubted not, and if I had, the words 
of him whom the captain of the robbers 
called “my lord” would have persuaded me. 

“The guineas are yours,” said the noble- 
man-villain, “so long as you bring me my 
enemy alive or dead, and the church plate he 
holds in trust. Is it a bargain, friend?” 

“We shall have the best of it, my lord,” 
said the other, “and I am well content. 
What do I want with the old mumbler of 


The Robbers in the Wood. 


29 


prayers, and the Mass vessels? The one 
would be as troublesome to me as the other.” 

“You shall have the guineas, then, and I 
shall take the risk of the cups,” said my lord. 
“They shall be safe until the hue and cry is 
dropped and I can turn them to honest 
metal.” 

“And the lady, my lord?” 

“Even you, friend Roger, and your merry 
men will not dare to kidnap her from the 
Queen’s court. But I shall be even yet with 
him who claimed the Queen’s sanctuary for 
her.” 

“You are one to pay your debts, my lord,” 
said the other, with a sneer. 

“I am a bad enemy and a good friend, 
Roger Darley, as you should well know,” 
said the man, whom, his cheek being 
turned towards me, I now perceived to be 
masked. 

“A good helper on the road to hell,” 
answered the captain, with an extremity of 
bitterness. 

The nobleman looked at him, and then 


30 


The Robbers in the Wood. 


spoke with a suavity of manner that was be- 
lied by his evil glance: 

"It is a short, but a merry road, friend 
Roger. What would you? Your good mother 
would have made a monk of you, but your 
inclinations did not march with hers.” 

"Do not speak of her!” cried the other, 
with staring eyeballs, and a voice choked 
with rage, or grief, or both. 

My lord glanced at him with evil scorn. 

"Why, then, if you are minded to repent, 
friend Roger, let this be your last murder. 
There will be enough guineas to carry you if 
you wander far from here — or they might 
take you for a lay-brother in one of the 
monkish houses that have begun to lift up 
their crests under the aegis of Queen Mary’s 
favor.” 

The robber plucked at the grass beside 
him as though in violent agitation. Then he 
laughed aloud. 

"I shall climb high,” he said, "but not so 
high as heaven. The traitor’s tree is high 
enough for me.” 


The Robbers in the Wood. 


3i 


“Why, there you are a stout fellow once 
more!” said the other. “It would be a 
strange sight if Eoger Darley were to come 
to snivelling.” 

“I am sunk too deep for it. And yet, my 
lord, I who care nothing for the murder, 
would rather it had been anything but 
church plate.” 

“ ’Twill he all one in the melting-pot, and 
in the end ’twill come to the same thing. 
The Princess Elizabeth is the. Queen’s nat- 
ural heir. She is Harry’s daughter — as the 
Queen is the daughter of her praying 
mother. Her fingers will itch for the Church 
revenues as much as ever her father’s 
did.” 

“The Queen may have heirs.” 

“If the Spanish match comes about. But 
the people will not have it. Anyhow, stout 
Roger, the religion is only priests’ fables to 
thee and to me — though you were within an 
aim’s ace of becoming a shaven-pated friar! 
See the pleasure the guineas will purchase 
you, man !” 


32 


The Robbers in the Wood. 


Now at this moment a rabbit scurried into 
the thicket, and my Tray, forgetting him- 
self, was near to hounding on its track and 
destroying us both. The masked man turned 
and looked sharply at the place where I lay. 
As he did so, so piercing was his gaze that I 
felt almost as if I were shot; yet I had seen 
first eyes that I should remember — strange 
eyes of a white-blue, with a hazel sprinkling 
in the iris of one. Then I felt a sword pass 
sharply over my head. If there had not 
been a deep hollow in the bed of moss it had 
surely passed through me. 

“Bah !” said the man whom the robber 
captain had called my lord, “there is noth- 
ing there. You are infecting me with your 
own fears, friend Boger.” 

“And now,” he said, rising to his feet, “it 
is time for me to he on my way. I am one of 
the Queen’s justices, and the course of jus- 
tice is awaiting me.” 

He laughed jarringly. 

“Well, to-night at midnight,” he went on, 
“is the tryst, and Golden Cross the place. 


The Robbers in the Wood. 


33 


Your knaves do not guess my name or de- 
gree?” 

"They do not. They care nothing so long 
as they are paid with gold to buy their sins.” 

The other looked sharply at him, but say- 
ing nothing, mounted and rode out of the 
wood; while the captain of the robbers sat 
moodily gazing upon the ground at his feet. 
I think at that moment Tray might have 
whimpered without rousing him from his 
dreams. 

A second later he was trouncing his men 
from the dice, and it was boots and saddles 
once more. I did not dare to look again 
while the jingling of the bits and spurs was 
in my ears. But presently I heard them 
go, and a deep breath of thankfulness I drew 
as I realized that once more Tray and I had 
the copse to ourselves, save only for the inno- 
cent wild folk that make their nests in the 
trees and the sylvan ground. 


CHAPTER III. 


THE ABBEY OF GOLDEN CROSS. 

Now these events had banished slumber 
from my eyes, and having lain a while to he 
sure that the robbers were well out of the 
copse, I got to my feet, and, forgetting that 
both Tray and I might well he somewhat 
foot-weary, started in the direction they had 
taken. 

By the sun’s altitude I knew they had 
struck north-eastward (which was not de- 
parting from my journey’s way), hut by 
fields and bridle-paths, not by the high road 
which is better suited for honest men. 

Therefore, trusting to guide myself by tlio 
sun so long as he lasted, and the stars when 
he was done, I, too, took the open country; 
and a welcome change it was in many ways, 
to my dog no less than to me, for as he 
hounded along on the smooth carpet of flow- 


34 


The Abbey of Golden Cross. 35 

ery turf he seemed to be once more a young 
puppy and playful. 

We had tramped for hours and the sun 
was low in the horizon, when there glim- 
mered out of a dark patch of woods ahead 
of us something that seemed like a little 
dome of fire. I guessed it to he the top of 
some very high building, crowned, it might 
be, with a fine gilt weathercock ; hut my sur- 
mise did not la$t for long, for presently I 
made it out to be a large gold world, and on 
top of it a golden cross which I had at first 
esteemed to be a flame which rose from the 
orb below. 

Suddenly as I stood in the midst of the 
wide champaign and gazed upon it, a thought 
came into my head which made me almost 
spring in air. 

Golden Cross, that was the name of the 
place where the murderers were to keep tryst, 
and what so likely hut it was the very place 
whose highest pinnacle I espied? 

Now, I am and ever have been peaceful of 
spirit, yet the desire upon me to see the end 


36 The Ahbey of Golden Cross. 

of this adventure was as great as ever I have 
felt. Therefore, with a shout that startled 
my Tray, I leaped forward towards the 
gloomy forest. 

I reckoned that by the time I reached 
Golden Cross the night would he upon me, 
and my mind was perturbed lest the wood- 
paths should betray me and I should he late 
for the tryst. However, I remembered at 
once that the moon rose hard upon the sun’s 
dying, and there she was even now, a slender 
bow of silver in the yellowing heaven. 

The way proved as straight as any impa- 
tient traveller could wish. Indeed, when I 
had entered the forest I was glad that the 
evening shadows were there before me, 
for the wide grassy road was dangerous 
enough if I should be espied by those 
malefactors in clear day; but now I slid 
in under the darkness of the overhanging 
boughs, with my eyes and ears alert for 
enemies. 

It might have been between nine and ten 
of the clock that I came out at last in front 


The Abbey of Golden Cross. 37 

of the Abbey of Golden Cross, for an abbey 
I now saw it to be. 

It must have lain about the centre of the 
wood, and many grassy paths like that I had 
taken converged towards it, as the spokes of 
a wheel towards its axle-tree. I might have 
known that it was the patient monks who 
had thus tamed the forest from his wildness. 

It was a very great and imposing structure, 
as I had guessed it would be ; but, alas ! as I 
came out in front of its drawbridge I saw 
that all was dark and silent, with gaps in the 
stately walls, as though not long ago the 
place had stood a siege. 

I crossed the drawbridge over the moat 
with my heart in my mouth, and came to the 
portcullis. It also gaped emptily, and I saw 
beyond the large hall filling with the moon- 
light. I went in and stood in the midst of 
ruins. 

A screen had divided it from the monk’s 
refectory. The sacred figures still kept 
watch and ward there, but beyond it there 
was nothing but ruin. Oak stalls and long 


38 The Abbey of Golden Cross. 

tables, the settles about the fireplace, the 
panelling of the walls, had suffered vio- 
lence. The stained glass crackled under 
my feet, and so much heaped was the ruin 
of many things in that great room that had 
once been beautiful that I looked warily 
as I moved, fearful lest I should disturb some 
forest wolf, or some worse than wolfish men. 

But I was alone in Golden Cross, except 
for my dog’s company, and that was I right 
glad to have. We scaled the staircases of 
stone, where even the metal-work of the 
handrails had been in many instances 
wrenched from its solid bed, and given way 
to pits of yawning emptiness. 

We stole along the silent corridors, peep- 
ing warily into the cells on either hand. 
They were all bare and empty, the scrip- 
torium, the muniment room, the still-room, 
the vast kitchens and cellars, all were quiet 
as the grave. 

When we had explored the great place, 
even to the abbey church, with the beautiful 
springing arches showing coldly in the 


The Abbey of Golden Cross. 


39 


moonlight, for that, too, had been desecrated 
and its riches of stained glass destroyed, I re- 
turned again to the refectory, for I began to 
fear the coming of those robbers, and was 
bent upon finding a hiding-place whence un- 
seen I might behold them. 

At last, after much searching I found the 
thing I sought. 

At the very head of the room stood a great 
clock built into a recess of the wall. The 
moonlight showed me a comely brass face, 
but the hands had been plucked away. The 
axes had been at it, for the case showed here 
and there a long gash ; but the destroyers had 
evidently tired of their task and had left it 
but half done. 

As I passed my hands over the carving of 
the door I discovered to my joy that the key 
stood in the lock. I tried to turn it, and it 
went with me. I moved it hither and thither 
till it turned with ease. Why, here was 
safety as well as my point of vantage I had 
but to lock myself and Tray within the 
clock-case and we were safe as in a tower. 


40 The Abbey of Golden Cross. 

Within, the weights yet left room for half 
a dozen of my size. I changed the key from 
the outside to the inside of the door, and I 
gathered in my arms a heap of charred na- 
pery which once had covered the abbot’s table 
and placed it within the clock-case. Then I 
set my Tray on it, and bidding him be still 
huddled beside him, and swung to the door 
on both of us, turning the key in the lock. 

All this time I had carried my bundle. I 
undid it now, and we made a right good meal. 
I was but a child, and despite the zest of the 
adventure it was pleasant to be hidden 
within the clock-case, alike from the gray 
ghosts of the place as from them who should 
come presently. And mighty comfortable 
it was to me to hug the dog’s warm little 
body against me, and to feel his tongue upon 
my hand. 

Now, we had hardly finished our meal 
when there was a clattering of horses and a 
rumbling as of wagons outside, and in a little 
while the place was full of men. 

At first the light was dim, the peer from 


The Abbey of Golden Cross. 


41 


a couple of lanterns conflicting with the 
moonlight ; hut presently some of the rogues, 
fetching resinous pine cones from the wood, 
set them ablaze on the big hearth, and lit 
even the rafters .with the flame. 

Then they dragged within the hall and to 
the light of the fire several heavy oak chests, 
or at least I judged them to be heavy by the 
strain upon the fellows. They flung them 
down almost within reach of the clock-case, 
and looking upon them through my slit I saw 
how they were clamped with iron and bolt- 
ed with heavy iron bolts. 

Then a couple of them carried in what I 
saw to be the body of a man, and I should 
have taken it to be a corpse but for the words 
of the captain of the bravoes, who bade them 
lay him upon a trestle and loose his bonds a 
little. 

“For,” said he, “we need not encumber 
ourselves with a dead man without neces- 
sity.” 

They had hardly done these things when 
there came the clank of a horse’s trappings at 


42 The Abbey of Golden Cross. 

the threshold of Golden Cross. The captain 
turned to his men. 

“Away,” he said, “to the cellars and re- 
fresh yourselves with wine; hut if any man 
take more than he can carry we shall drop 
him into the moat, lest worse befall.” 

The fellows were gone in a twinkling and 
I had barely time to notice the moodiness of 
their captain’s face as he stirred the pine 
cones with his foot, when the masked noble- 
man of the day before entered the hall. 

“You have brought it,” he said, gloating 
upon the chests. 

“Every moidore of it,” said the other, 
without turning to regard him. 

“Ah !” the man of the mask breathed deep, 
as with delight. 

“Let me look upon it,” he went on. 

The other stooped and shot the bolts of a 
chest, and flung back the huge door with 
easy strength. 

“Ah !” cried the mask again, plunging his 
hands within the contents, which I now saw 
to be vessels and ornaments of chased gold. 


The Abbey of Golden Gross. 


43 


“And the coins?” he asked. 

“The coins are here.” 

“Yon are satisfied?” 

“They will buy me my way to France. The 
Queen, Tis said, will put in force the laws 
against rogues and vagabonds. There is no 
room for me and my merry men. We shall 
part company.” 

“And you will become a clean liver?” 

“I have been your tool long enough, my 
lord.” 

“Fie, Roger, such speech among friends!” 

The robber kicked impatiently at a cone 
which had spat from the hearth. 

“What will you do with the things?” he 
asked. 

“Sink them in the moat till such time as I 
can handle them. Your men are safe?” 

“They would empty the last skin of 
wine if I were not here, ere they would 
leave.” 

“You and I are equal to the task? It is 
but to drag them to the door and tilt them 
from the bridge.” 


44 The Abbey of Golden Cross. 

“We must be equal, since you are cau- 
tious.” 

“We cannot place our trust in brigands,” 
said the other, with the evil curl of his lip. 

The robber bent his great back to the 
chest which remained unopened, and began 
tugging at it without a word. The other 
lent him his force, and the thing began to 
move. 

Now a great and keen desire had come 
upon me to see the plate closer, more es- 
pecially as from my distance I perceived it to 
be at least in part of ancient and exquisite 
design. Therefore, as the two disappeared 
with the chest beyond the screen into the 
great hall, I stepped swiftly from my hiding- 
place and took up the first piece of plate 
which came into my hand in the open chest. 

It was a cup shapen like a lily, and of the 
most exquisite design and workmanship. In- 
deed, so beautiful was it that it rapt me out of 
a sense of my danger, as I stood there holding 
it in the firelight that I might better survey 
its curled-back petals and beaten calyx. The 


The Abbey of Golden Cross. 45 

thing was small and slender, more like the 
lily-hud asleep upon the stem than the flower 
perfectly oped. 

But while I yet gazed entranced I heard 
the sound of footsteps returning. Scarce 
knowing what I did I plunged again within 
the recesses of the clock, holding the cup to 
my breast, and had no time to spare, for 
scarce had the key clicked upon me than the 
two were within the refectory. 

The second chest they clamped and re- 
moved as they had done the other, and again 
they were returned. 

Then the mask stood up in the firelight 
and indicated with a gesture the body that 
lay motionless upon the table. 

“And this carrion,” he said; “lend me a 
helping hand, Roger, and it shall follow the 
plate-chests.” 

“He is not dead,” said the other. “He is 
but stunned by a blow on the sconce.” 

“What matter? He will feel the journey 
to heaven as little. ’Tis as short by water as 
by land, said your friar who defied stout 


46 


The Abbey of Golden Cross. 


Harry and went to heaven by way of Thames 
waters. Here, lend me a hand.” 

“Let him be,” said the other sullenly. “He 
hath wrought me no ill, and he is a good 
man. It is misfortune enough to rob him 
of the Church’s trust, and now when the 
time comes for him to render it up. Let him 
be!” 

“To hang us?” 

“He will not hang us. He trusted you 
enough to tell you of the plate, even to give 
it in your charge when death should over- 
take him. He will not now believe you such 
a villain.” 

“You are white-livered, friend Roger.” 

“Perhaps. I am hardened in crime, but 
this matter of stealing church plate from an 
old man whose honor is concerned in saving 
it turns me sick. Perhaps I am going to die 
— but I will go no further with it.” 

“What will you do, then?” 

“Let him lie. He will come to himself 
and gnaw himself out of the cords. We shall 
be far by that.” 


The Abbey of Golden Cross. 


47 


“Tut, man! He will suspect me, I tell 
you, and will hang me ! There, be clear of 
the act since you fear. I can carry him.” 

“That will you not. He trusted you. Let 
him live out his years !” 

The eyes of the mask glowed in a white 
heat, and his hand went to his sword. Then 
he laughed scornfully. 

“Pish,” he said, “let the dotard live, then. 
He may pray you into a cowl yet.” 

And so saying, he went quickly from the 
place and I heard him ride away. 

Nor were the robbers long behind him. I 
listened only for the clatter of their horses to 
die in the distance ere I should issue from the 
clock-case and loosen the old man’s bonds. 
I was, indeed, in act to turn the key in the 
stiff wards, when I heard feet shuffling 
among the ruins in the hall. 

Crouching down, I looked again from my 
slit. The fire had now died away, but the 
place was full of the gray light before sun- 
rise, and outside in the wood I heard the 
birds awaking. 


48 The Abbey of Golden Cross. 

The man who came was he who had worn 
the mask, but now he was masked no longer, 
and his face in the slow light was full of evil 
lines and shadows. 

He came close to where the old man lay 
still as the dead. Then he drew a poniard 
from his breast and stabbed the quiet body 
once, twice. There was a faint, gurgling 
noise, and then silence. 

The murderer paused an instant as if to 
listen. Then he spoke to the man he had 
stabbed. 

“Come,” he said, “and guard your plate- 
chests.” 

He wrapped him about in a cloak he had 
carried with him. 

“How, Sir William,” he said again, “a 
stone at your head and one at your feet, and 
you will lie at the moat’s bottom till Judg- 
ment day!” 

Then he shouldered the body, which from 
the ease with which he carried it seemed to 
be little and frail, and went forth into the 
morning bearing it. 


The Abbey of Golden Cross. 


49 


But sight and sense had slipped away from 
me, and I dropped in the clock-case and lay 
there in a swound. 


CHAPTER IV. 


SIR ANTHONY A-DALE. 

I knew not how long I had lain, but I 
came to myself with my Tray licking my 
face, and as memory returned to me I was 
taken with an ague and sweat of fear, so that 
my teeth chattered and I scarce had strength 
to set myself free of the clock-case. And 
when I had done so I slunk like a hunted 
thing, with the dog at my heels, from 
that place, not daring to turn my eyes 
where the murdered man had fallen, albeit 
the hall was now full of the morning sun- 
shine, and the air sweet with the singing of 
birds. 

Ho sooner was I free of the abbey than I 
ran fast — yea, fast as the hare when the dogs 
chase her, and rested not till from sheer fa- 
tigue I fell over the roots of a great oak 
that had flung themselves high in the flower- 
50 


Sir Anthony a-Dale. 51 

ing grass, and lay for an instant half- 
stunned. 

Recovering, I sat up and looked about me. 
I was in an extremely pleasant glade of the 
forest, carpeted with harebells and moss, and 
now so warm and light with the sun that my 
blood seemed to thaw from the cold chill and 
horror of the morning. About the middle of 
the glade a stream spurted merrily over the 
rock and fell into a quiet basin in the moss 
below. 

Without more ado I stripped, and plunged 
into the water. The cold shock of it revived 
me wonderfully, so that when I had dried in 
the sun and clad myself, I felt my youth 
bounding once more in every vein. All the 
time my Tray sat watching me in a placid 
content, with his gray nose upon his paws, 
and so glad was I of his company that I 
could have sung praises of the sweet and ex- 
cellent companionship afforded by his kind 
to man; only, considering my poor friend 
must needs be hungry, I concluded that to 
feed him were the better way. 


52 


Sir Anthony a-Dale. 


We had but one more meal, and that a 
scant one, left in the bundle when we had 
both breakfasted. And now I must mention 
that within the pack when I undid it I 
found, to my confusion, the golden cup 
which the night before I had taken from the 
plate-chest with hut the design of looking at 
it. I must have put it there without notic- 
ing what I did at the time, and the events 
that followed were enough to drive the mat- 
ter from my mind. 

At first I had the thought of hiding it in 
the glade. Then the beauty of it so greatly 
won upon me, even to the extent of bringing 
tears to my eyes, that I could not hear to 
part with it. And Heaven forgive me if in 
this I acted covetously and dishonestly, for 
indeed I had no other thought than that I 
had rescued a fair and holy thing from the 
melting-pot, and from the hands of a thief 
and a murderer. 

So presently I put up the cup again and 
resumed my journey, for though my own 
body, as well as my dog’s beseeching eyes, 


Sir Anthony a-Dale. 


53 


prayed me to halt, yet I would not do so 
within the precincts of Golden Cross, nor 
feel that sleep could visit my eyes within its 
wood after the things I had witnessed. 

Presently we struck the high road, and 
though at another time the fields had invited 
me, yet was I glad to get back to the com- 
pany of my kind which it promised me, and 
soon, I had no doubt, I should strike a likely 
coppice where Tray and I might rest. 

As I trudged along half asleep, with the 
dog at my heels, I was aroused by a very 
rude blow upon the back, which seemed to 
shake and jar me so violently in my weary 
condition that for a moment I reeled. Re- 
covering myself, I turned angrily upon my 
assailant. He proved to be a stout vagrant, 
with a most truculent expression of counte- 
nance and as swaggering an air as ever I saw. 
Two little, fierce eyes like those of a pig 
glared at me over a fiery nose and a mouth 
that fell away from broken and ill-colored 
teeth. 

“Who are you/’ cried I, spluttering with 


54 


Sir Anthony a-Dale. 


rage, “that roams the Queen’s highway mak- 
ing war on peaceful wayfarers?” 

“Who am I, my young cockerel?” mim- 
icked he. “I am Nick-o’-the-Fen, and my 
business to make such as thee cry small. 
What hast ’ee in thy pack?” 

“Nothing for you, rogue!” I retorted. 
“Let me pass, or ’twill fare worse with you.” 

“Why, we are for cock-fighting !” he cried 
in a very loud voice. “Well, then, to teach 
thee a lesson first, and to shoulder thy beg- 
garly pack with my own afterward.” 

Then he raised his cudgel and began be- 
laboring me so heavily that I had soon been 
a mass of bruises if my Tray had not sud- 
denly pinned him by the leg, to the diversion 
of his wrath from me. He shook himself 
free with a vicious oath and turned to my 
dog. Poor Tray was old and no longer agile, 
and was, besides, foot-weary, so that he fell 
where the beggar had cast him, and if I had 
not flung myself upon his little yellow body 
the life would have been dashed out of him 
in an instant. 


Sir Anthony a-Dale . 


55 


And then as I lay crying for mercy for my 
friend and expecting a cndgel blow on my 
own back that should knock the breath from 
me, I heard a most sweet and fresh voice 
come towards us singing. Dazed as I was, 
I heard the words : 

“Sir Raymond, bannerol of the wood, 

Has neither fire nor firewood.” 

At this moment the singer turned the cor- 
ner of the way and came upon us, with the 
beggar suddenly arrested in act to strike. I 
could not look, hut I heard the gay voice 
change angrily as the newcomer cried: 

“Why, have at you, rogue! You are not 
fit for a knight’s sword-point, hut the flat of 
it you shall have and welcome ! Ha, caper, 
caper, will you? So shall you dance one of 
these days on a fair gallows.” 

I sat up at the words and would have 
laughed aloud at the sight, for my beggar 
was fleeing before the sudden onslaught — 
and, screaming for mercy, had not seemed to 
notice the youth and slightness of his as- 
sailant. Presently the fellow vanished 


56 


Sir Anthony a-Dale. 


through a gap in a thick-set hedge, and the 
young knight came hack laughing lustily. 

“He will never stop/ 5 he said, “till he is 
winded. I but came in time, friend, for he 
looked in act to break thy back.” 

“That I should not have minded so great- 
ly,” said I, “but afterwards he had done the 
like for my dog.” 

“Why, poor beast !” said the young knight 
compassionately. “Is he hurt? If I had 
known it I should not have let the rogue off 
so lightly. For hark you, my boy, he who 
will hurt a dog or a child is worse than he 
who will hurt a man.” 

At this moment a rabbit scurried in the 
sunlight across the road, and my Tray, with 
a sharp yelp, though limping somewhat, took 
up the chase. 

“He is not hurt,” said the young knight. 
“And now tell me whither you are bound 
that have these merry encounters with 
knavish beggars.” 

“For London town presently,” said I ; “but 
now for a convenient spot where I may sleep. 


Sir Anthony a-Dale. 


57 


My dog and I have been afoot nigh upon two 
days, and if sleep had not almost overcome 
me walking yon fellow would not have sur- 
prised me.” 

I indeed felt weary to death, for the beg- 
gar’s onslaught had been my final over- 
throw. 

“Well, then,” said my knight, “we shall 
seek such a place together, for I and my Don 
have also been travelling hard, putting a 
goodly space between ourselves and hatred.” 

He took a little whistle from his faded sur- 
coat and blew it; thereupon, to my surprise, 
a beautiful black steed came trotting up. 

“I knew not you were mounted, fair lord,” 
I said. 

“My Don went picking the clover while I 
chased your rogue,” he said; and then, ob- 
serving the admiration in my eyes, for ever 
have I loved a horse or a dog, he said : 

“He is a right good horse, is he not?” 

“That is he,” said I. “Black as a coal, 
sleek as satin, fiery, yet gentle, and his points 
all that befit a good steed.” 


53 


Sir Anthony a-Dale. 


“You are right, boy,” sail my champion; 
“and as dear to me as thy little cur to thee — 
else should I turn Don and this sword into 
golden money.” 

“None could buy his love, nor could you, 
my lord, sell it, if he is like my Tray,” 
quoth I. 

“Ridit!” said he, flinging himself in his 
saddle. “Here, give me thy pack, lad. Slight 
as it is, thou wilt go lighter without it.” 

He set my bundle before him on his horse 
and we two paced together down the sunny 
road, he conversing gayly, and suiting the 
stride of his horse to my slow gait. 

So when we had found the place we sought 
he left his Don to my care and went away 
for a little, returning with a smiling farm- 
wench bearing a very generous provender of 
cold bacon and eggs, with milk and honey, 
oatcake and fresh butter, which, when set 
out on the grass, looked as inviting a meal as 
ever I saw. When she had left it she de- 
parted with many curtsies, and the young 
knight thanking her, swept the ground al- 


Sir Anthony a-Dale. 


59 


most with his how, as though she were a lady 
of his own rank. Then he bade me to the 
feast. 

“The farmer’s wife was kind,” he said, “as 
i’ faith I think all women be. She would 
have us eat under her roof, good dame; but 
somehow I think we are better suited with 
the roof of heaven. At least it is the only 
roof Anthony a-Dale looks to canopy him 
till his fortune changes.” 

“It is your name?” I asked. 

“Yes, child, Anthony a-Dale, a poor 
knight with a curmudgeon of a rich brother 
who grudges him house-room. His only pat- 
rimony left him is his horse and his 
sword, and with these he goes to seek his 
fortune.” 

“May you find it, and soon!” I said, 
fervently. 

“Amen,” said he, “to that, for the sake of 
one dearer than myself. Else should I wel- 
come Fortune’s rebuffs nigh as much as her 
favors. And your name, fellow traveller?” 

“Piers Borrodaile.” 


6o 


Sir Anthony a-Dale. 


“On what errand bent?” 

“Likewise to seek my fortune.” 

“God further it, for you are a brave lad, 
though young.” 

“Not so much your knightship’s junior.” 

“I am twenty-three. You will he — ■” 

“Sixteen, come March.” 

“When you are twenty-three, Master Piers 
Borrodaile, you will find that the seven years 
of difference counts much. But now, boy, 
let us to sleep.” 

I enjoyed then the very sweetest sleep I 
could imagine, with my dog’s head nuzzled 
into my breast, and myself mightily com- 
forted with the good food and the thought of 
my companion sleeper. 

It was late afternoon when I awoke. I 
had slept some seven hours, and felt greatly 
refreshed. I sat up among the mosses and 
regarded the face of the young knight. A 
fair face it was — an honest, a brave face — 
although some lines of care were graved on 
its comely youth. His cap had fallen off and 
his thick, golden hair lay on the green earth 


Sir Anthony a-Dale. 61 

like daffodils. As I watched him sleeping, 
one arm about his head, I loved him. 

Here we were to part company, for his way 
lay no further side by side with mine. But 
ere he awoke I crept close to his Don and 
laid within the haversack my cup of gold. 
“For at the worst/’ I thought, “’twill buy 
him bread, and at the least it will gladden 
his eye and serve him as a memento of me.” 

I had hardly left it when he awoke, and 
bidding me very kindly farewell, departed 
on his Don. And as he rode he called back 
good wishes to me over his shoulder. But 
my greatest wish at that moment was that 
I might see him again, and serve him if I 
could. And it gave me some comfort to 
think I had bestowed on him the thing most 
dear to myself of inanimate things in the 
world, for the cup had in so little a space 
laid its leaves about my heart. 


CHAPTER V. 


THE QUEEN’S VISIT. 

I was weary enough when I reached Lon- 
don, and found at last the street of the Lorn- 
hardy merchants — so covered with the dust 
of the road, and so dishevelled from sleeping 
in hayricks and hedgerows that I know not 
how I had the confidence to present myself 
before Giovanni. 

But just as I had the faith that I should 
find him and he welcomed by him, so was I 
justified. My dog and I had to hear some 
rude jibes uttered by the hoys of the town 
(who were of an uncommon quickness and 
pertness I thought) on our rustic appearance 
before we found where Giovanni lived. But 
nothing fearing, I went boldly into the low 
shop, where the windows gleamed with the 
hues of wrought gold and silver, and asked 
for the Queen’s orfever, for so high, I had 
6 2 


The Queen's Visit. 63 

learned, Giovanni had risen when I made 
inquiries of folks concerning him. 

He came out to me straightway from an 
inner room, and drawing me to the light, 
looked into my face. 

“Ah !” said he with a long sigh, and then 
embracing me, kissed me on both cheeks. 
“I knew you would come, caro, when the old 
soul was absorbed again into its centre. You 
are come, then, to be my son, my child — to 
teach me and to he taught. Ah !” and again 
he kissed me. Then he picked up Tray, who 
had been whimpering about his feet, and 
bringing us within gave us a meal which we 
both greatly needed, albeit the dishes set us 
by his black-eyed old housekeeper were 
of strange flavors to us English. 

After that I lived with Giovanni indeed 
as his son, and he, teaching me day by day 
all his art, taught me also divers lessons 
of humility, simplicity, and devotion, which 
were not less precious, 1 take it, in the spirit- 
ual kingdom than our wrought ewers and 
tankards and dishes in the kingdom of art. 


64 


The Queen's Visit. 


And now it seemed to me sometimes as if I 
had never been a country lad ; as if the cot- 
tage on the Portsmouth Road and my years 
there with the dear soul now in bliss were 
hut dreams; though often Giovanni and I 
would converse of the place, and make plans 
to return there for a while and lay our tools 
aside and learn new lessons from the flow- 
ers and the grasses. This would he during 
our long walks in the fields beyond High- 
gate, or it might be in Lincoln’s Inn Fields 
nearer home, where, when the light had sunk 
to the forbidding of our working, we would 
linger of evenings to hear the birds sing. 

All day we were together, I with my ma- 
terials and my tools at a little table in Gio- 
vanni’s workshop, truly as a son might he 
with his father. And it was happiness 
enough to be there amid shapes of beauty, 
seeing beauty visible growing under the 
hands of my master, and bringing him my 
own ’prentice efforts to he set straight. There 
were some days when I lacked the joy and 
the pleasure in work, and then he would set 


The Queen's Visit. 


65 


me little and drudging tasks. Yet other days 
I was all in a flame with the thoughts that 
crowded upon me, and the day was too short 
for my eagerness, so that Giovanni would 
often draw me away by gentle force when the 
sun was low. 

On the dull days he would comfort me. 

“Ah, little one !” he would say, “thou and 
I must work in a flame, in an ecstasy, or not 
at all. Others are happier, being of the 
same temper every day; hut we would not 
give the weariness, the tears, you and I, for 
the evenness of their way, would we, child?” 

And I had to say always that we would 
not. 

So retired did we live from the world, Gio- 
vanni and I and Tray, with Giulia, the old 
housekeeper, that it hardly reached me how 
Giovanni had the reputation of a great artist 
in the precious metals, and was held in high 
honor in high places and might, if he would, 
he a pet for great ladies as other great crafts- 
men had been in their time. But he was a 
hermit of the desert, a recluse, shy as the 


66 


The Queen's Visit. 


forest birds and beasts; and if he went to 
court he would only go as her majesty’s 
goldsmith, and would retire as quickly as he 
might after submitting his designs to the 
royal eyes. 

Now there had been much talk of the 
Spanish match and the thing was to be, al- 
though many an Englishman yet muttered 
in his beard when a Don was so much as 
mentioned, for the marriage was reported 
not to be popular and that the Queen, like 
any Tudor, had carried her will in the teeth 
of her lords and councillors. 

Little of it would have reached us in our 
high garret, full of the cold northern light, 
if it had not been that the marriage meant 
many vessels of gold and silver, and orna- 
ments of gold. For the Queen was as splen- 
did in her generosity as ever was king, and 
it was said she would have sown jewels, if 
she might, in the way her royal consort must 
tread. 

Giovanni was fashioning an exceedingly 
beautiful collar of beaten gold set with gems, 


The Queen’s Visit. 


67 


which was to be one of the Queen’s gifts to 
King Philip, and this brought the matter 
somewhat in our minds so that we talked of 
it at our work. 

“And indeed, ” he would say in his gentle 
and dreamy manner, “I have sorrow for the 
poor gentleman who comes to this inhos- 
pitable shore, and still more for the gentle- 
men who come in his train. For remember- 
ing the state and glory of Spain, never will 
it appear to them that this people of thine 
should not cast garlands in the way and sing 
Te Deums for the marriage. Yet, as we 
know, the people’s hearts are sour, and their 
faces will be sour towards the Queen’s hus- 
band and his following. They are a sour peo- 
ple, thy islanders, little Piers, and too prone 
to imagine that God created Englishmen and 
some lower power the rest.” 

And I, I could not deny that it was so with 
my country-folk, albeit my experience had 
been so little. 

Then one day there came a clatter and a 
shouting in our quiet street, with its low- 


68 


The Queen's Visit. 


browed houses, and looking forth from the 
window I saw a great cavalcade coming down 
it and pausing at our door. 

“There are here some visitors of rank, Gio- 
vanni,” I said idly, for it was nothing un- 
common for him to be called away to speak 
with great lords and prelates, or for them 
to visit our workshop. He answered noth- 
ing, for he was engaged on a link of the 
chain; it was one of my dull days, and I 
stood to watch a lady who was in the midst 
of the cavalcade alight from her white pab 
frey, and others about her do the like. 

But suddenly the door was flung open and 
one rushed in crying: “The Queen! the 
Queen ! She asks for thee, Master Giovanni, 
and is even now on thy stairs !” 

Then I saw Giovanni bowing like a cour- 
tier to the very ground, and there entered 
our dusty place the Queen’s majesty herself, 
with certain ladies and gentlemen of her fol- 
lowing. 

She had come to see how the chain fared, 
and having seen it and graciously approved, 


The Queen's Visit. 69 

there was much else for her to behold and 
praise. 

I, standing in my dusky recess, had full 
view of England’s Queen. She was at once 
less and more than beautiful. Her face had 
something of the width of her royal father’s, 
with an expression his never had — one of 
truth, of candor, and simplicity, and withal 
a right royal power and pride. Brown hair 
lay thick and soft on a wide forehead; her 
eyes, albeit not large, were bright and pierc- 
ing and were surmounted by fine brows ; her 
skin brown and clear; her mouth at once 
sensitive and firm, displaying when she 
smiled somewhat sadly very white teeth. 
These made comeliness, but added to it there 
was an expression at once royal and ardent. 
This Queen might make mistakes, but the 
eyes of her intention would ever be towards 
the right, and if she acted wrongly it would 
be by virtue of her passion for rectitude. She 
was clad simply in a riding-dress of black 
velvet, with a flat cap of velvet wreathed by 
a sweeping white plume. 


70 The Queen's Visit. 

Now of her ladies one attracted me as 
might a star in eclipse. She was very young 
to he so sad, and her chestnut hair, her 
brown eyes and soft tints, were not made for 
mourning. Yet she drooped like a lily dy- 
ing, and even as she stood by the Queen’s 
side her gaze was one of utmost hopelessness, 
as though she had said good-bye forever not 
only to Hope, but to his brother, Fear. 

She, too, wore a black habit, and it was un- 
relieved by plume or gaud of any kind. As 
I watched her I wondered exceedingly what 
could have come to blight so fair a creature 
— one had said indeed as naturally made for 
love and joy as the birds are made to sing. 
I saw also that she alone of the Queen’s la- 
dies took no heed to our work, nor pre- 
tended to, but moved hither and thither like 
one in a dream, and yet clung close to her 
majesty’s person, as though there alone shel- 
ter and safety were to be found — I dare 
not add comfort to her who looked com- 
fortless. 

Presently, when the Queen had seen all 


The Queen's Visit . 


7i 


she would, her eyes rested for a moment 
upon me. 

"And this. Master Giovanni Battista, is 
this a pupil of thine ?” 

"A pupil who is also a teacher, your maj- 
esty,” answered Giovanni, with a sweetness 
which brought the tears to my eyes, "and 
who will one day excel his master in his own 
art.” 

"Pray you, your majesty,” I hurst out, 
"not to believe him. I am hut a humble 
learner of his ways. He thinks least of him- 
self of all the world.” 

The Queen smiled. 

"We know the worth of Master Giovanni, 
and are rejoiced that he has so loyal a pupil. 
You are one of our subjects?” 

"Most faithful,” I replied, "and asking no 
better than to die for the Queen. A man of 
Hants, your majesty, Piers Borrodaile by 
name.” 

The Queen smiled again, and I saw that 
the smile ran round the circle, I knew not 
wherefore. 


72 


The Queen's Visit. 


“Live for us, Master Piers Borrodaile,” 
she answered very sweetly; “for us and for 
art, but chiefly for God. You will make 
church plate — for, alas ! there are many gaps 
in the Church’s coffers. So you will be serv- 
ing God specially; and afterwards you will 
serve us, or those who come after us.” 

“I will serve God, and your majesty, and 
King Philip!” I said stoutly. 

“That is well said, Master Piers,” the 
Queen returned very gently, while a wave 
of warm color passed over her face, leaving 
it wondrously soft. 

She then gave me her hand to kiss, and 
afterwards departed, with my Giovanni go- 
ing before her, bowing to the ground. When 
she had gone and the street once more was 
dark, Giovanni jested with me for that I had 
become a courtier. 

“The Queen will not forget it to thee, 
caro , that thou didst name her man in the 
same breath of loyalty towards her and Him 
who has the loyalty of all hearts, and is the 
King of kings. Thou hast made friends 


The Queen's Visit. 


73 


in high places, I can tell thee, little 
Piers.” 

“Ah !” said I, “that I thought not of, but 
that the Queen looked sad; and as they say 
her people are froward .” 

“Alas, poor lady!” said Giovanni. “She 
has a thorny path to tread, I fear. With a 
sister who is a traitor, a people who are re- 
bellious, she but needs a spouse unloving to 
be as sad as ever her royal mother was.” 

“Alas!” echoed I, “the shadow of the 
prison is on her face. But who. I pray you, 
Giovanni, was that sweet lady near the 
Queen’s person who seemed so drowned in 
sorrow that joy could never lighten her 
again?” 

“Why, that,” said he, “is one who has 
great cause for grief, as I shall presently ex- 
plain to you.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE LILY-CUP. 

“Touching that same Mistress Alice,” said 
Giovanni later, “ ? tis a piteous tale, as sad al- 
most as that of our own Romeo and Giuli- 
etta. The lady is of the most tender and re- 
ligious upbringing. Her father, an old 
knight, was in his time a friend of Sir 
Thomas More, and was, indeed, just such 
another fine, austere, gay, and gentle 
spirit. 

“However, as will happen, she was beloved 
by two suitors, mayhap more, though she 
grew up a thing of solitude. One was young, 
one a man of more than middle age; the 
young one without a ducat, the elder rich 
and of honorable estate — although the breath 
of scandal had not passed him by. Yet 
such things would never reach the old knight 
in his oratory, or mayhap if they did would 


74 


The Lily -cup. 


75 


be disregarded by him as the buzzing of sum- 
mer flies. 

“As is the custom with those much se- 
cluded, the old knight was not easily moved, 
and having taken it in his head the young 
knight was a wastrel (some say by virtue of 
his rival’s tales) would not be changed there- 
from, but forbade him access to his daughter 
and her all intercourse with him, and that 
she should make herself ready to marry the 
elder lover. 

“However, the young one in some way or 
other got the ear of the Queen. Thou know- 
est, Piers, that, like her royal race, she is as 
frank and free of access as any noble and 
guileless boy. She listened to the young 
knight, and having a heart for all lovers, she 
commanded the lady’s father that he should 
send his daughter to be her lady-in-waiting, 
for so only, she thought, would she gain time 
to learn all aspects of the matter whereby 
justice might be done. 

“So the marriage between the elder suitor 
and Mistress Alice, which seemed nigh at 


76 


The Lily-cup. 


hand, was put off, and the poor child herself 
was snatched to the safe sanctuary of the 
Queen’s protection, where for a time I have 
seen her as gay as a flower in the sun and the 
dews. 

“Great love grew between her and the 
Queen, and a turn of the Queen’s wrist had 
brought her full happiness if it were not 
that Don Amoroso, the young knight, would 
carve his own way to honor with his sword, 
nor win fortune by the Queen’s affection for 
his lady. And indeed, poor gentleman, he 
had enemies of his own household who had 
smirched him so far that the Queen was 
willing he should pass an ordeal to prove 
himself clear ere he came to claim Mistress 
Alice. 

“Then a terrible thing happened. If thou 
hadst not lived in this garret many months 
without touching the world of men thou 
wouldst know of these things, son, for they 
are in all men’s mouths. 

“The old knight, the lady’s father, and his 
treasure disappear. He has no enemy that is 


The Lily-cup. 


77 


known, except the young knight to whom he 
had refused his daughter be one. A rumor 
comes from somewhere that he had quar- 
relled with that lord that also sought his 
daughter’s hand, having discovered him base, 
but there is no evidence of it save household 
tattle that told how the old knight had 
shown my lord the door. But now my lord 
is there as Mistress Alice’s friend and lover. 
He is like the new heir, and is busy with 
wills, title-deeds, settlements, and what not. 
He bears himself with such kindness and 
grief that even the Queen wavers. But Mis- 
tress Alice will have none of him. Her heart 
is with the young lover fighting the Queen’s 
battles in France. 

“And now, grief of griefs, calamity of 
calamities ! The young lover returns and is 
accused of the good knight’s murder. The 
evidence is terrible. It is — ” 

“Master Giovanni,” said a voice at the 
door, “the Abbot of Glastonbury would speak 
with thee.” 

Giovanni’s hands, which he had been wav- 


78 The Lily-cup. 

ing in the air as the story fixed him, fell to 
his sides. 

“Say to the abbot that I come,” he said, 
and in an instant had followed the messen- 
ger. 

Now, strange to say, I had never shared 
with Giovanni the secret of Golden Cross, 
and that which I had beheld from the clock- 
case. Often it had been on my tongue to tell 
him, but the horror which clung about the 
memory choked the words hack. It was the 
one happening of gloom and horror in all my 
life, that had flowed so gently in the quiet 
country-place, and it seemed sweeter to talk 
of that happy past than of the nightmare 
which even yet oppressed my dreams. 

But now Giovanni’s tale of a murder re- 
called to my mind my own terrible witness- 
ing, and as I sat there drumming with my 
fingers I unconsciously seized a pencil and 
began reproducing, as I remembered it, the 
fair shape of beauty that was the chalice I 
had placed in Sir Anthony a-Dale’s haver- 
sack. 


The Lily-cup. 


79 


In a little while I forgot everything save 
the design, which seemed to rise to my 
fingers as though I were its first maker. The 
curled-hack, lovely petals, the pistils, the sta- 
men, I drew with passion; and so absorbed 
was I that I did not hear Giovanni’s step be- 
hind me, nor know he was there till he laid 
his hand over my own. 

“What is it, little Piers,” he asked, “that 
so engrosses thee?” 

“A shape for a chalice, Giovanni,” I 
answered, still working upon the page. “Is 
it fair, is it shapely, is it seemly?” 

“It is most lovely, caro,” he said, looking 
at me I thought strangely. “Hast dreamed 
it?” 

“Hay, Giovanni,” I said, “I have seen 
it.” . 

“In some old stately garden,” he asked, 
“where il was the bees’ palace?” 

“Hot so, but already most fairly wrought, 
a righ t Church chalice. Here, see you, where 
the dew fell were diamonds; and here, to 
simulate what that cup should hold, were 


8o 


The Lily-cup. 


rubies like blood-drops. The stalk was an 
emerald, the base clear crystal — ” 

He interrupted me hastily. 

“Where didst see such a chalice, little 
Piers? Tell me now, for this is a matter of 
much import.” 

“I will tell you all, Giovanni,” I answered ; 
and then, while the dusk grew in the studio 
I told him my tale. When I had finished 
he drew a long breath. 

“Ah!” cried he. “I had thought there to 
be one such cup in all the world. This is 
the very leading of God.” 

“How so, Giovanni?” I asked. 

“Why, see thee, little Piers,” he answered, 
“I have told thee a story to-day and you 
have told me one, and as I read it both are 
the same story, and your witnessing a clear 
key to let daylight upon an evil plot and to 
rescue the innocent. Wherefore plainly it 
seems to me that you were sent to Golden 
Cross by the will of God.” 

“I know that naught haps without,” 1 said. 
“But what is this plot?” 


The Lily-cup. 81 

“Why, little dull-pate, that knight thou 
sawest murdered and robbed was no other 
than Sir William Danby, the father of Mis- 
tress Alice; and that murderer, though we 
shall need to prove it, was the Lord Selby 
who sought her hand in marriage — ” 

“But the young knight !” I cried out, my 
mind forewarning me what he was about to 
say. 

“The young knight was thy Sir Anthony 
a-Dale, and thy gift to him as evil a one as 
Jacob’s cup must have seemed to Benjamin 
and the brethren. For see you, child, this 
Sir William Danby held in trust the 
church plate of abbeys and churches 
that feared the rapacious appetite of royal 
Harry for such precious morsels. And 
none knew he held it while Edward was 
on the throne, and the new German doc- 
trines in favor. But by the mercy of 
God, the religion being restored under our 
beloved Queen, the trust had been given back 
to them who bestowed it, had not sacri- 
legious and wicked men discovered the good 


82 


The Lily-cup. 


knight’s secret and robbed him and the 
Church, and done him to death, as we may 
well say, in defence of it.” 

“But Sir Anthony?” I cried. “What evil 
chance brought suspicion to rest on so fair 
and honest a head?” 

“Why, thy cup, child, thy cup ! It is the 
famous lily-cup of the Abbey of Sainte 
Croix.” 

“Alas!” cried I. “I meant to show him 
love; I but lured him to destruction.” 

Giovanni put a tender arm about my 
shoulders. 

“Hot so,” he said. “You are the instru- 
ment of God to save the innocent, and bring 
the guilty to punishment. He has opened 
our eyes just in time.” 

“What do you say, Giovanni?” I asked ? 
trembling. 

“Why, child, while we have been moulder- 
ing here in our garret the town is agog with 
the things that are happening. To-morrow 
is the trial of Sir Anthony before the Lord 
Justices at Westminster. Men’s minds are 


The Lily-cup. 


83 


blown this way and that way, for sure it is 
that Sir Anthony was found in possession of 
the lily-cup; and what more likely than that 
his sweetheart, Mistress Alice, revealed to 
him the secret chamber where the chests 
lay? And, besides, had he not a grudge 
against him who has vanished with his trust? 
And yet, there are some found to say that the 
young knight is innocent and brave, and that 
his tale may be true of the cup placed in his 
haversack. And some even have whispered 
that the Lord Selby was in the dead man’s 
secrets even more than his daughter, for my 
lord is not liked of men. They talk of a new 
witness to-morrow against Sir Anthony, so 
the Abbot of Glastonbury tells me. There 
will be one on his side, little Piers, there will 
be one on his side, and God will be with 
him. God defend the right!” 

And so, with fair and hopeful words he 
comforted me, who could hardly endure till 
to-morrow, so that he filled me with his own 
faith; and that night I even slept, who had 
felt never to sleep again, since I had brought 


84 


The Lily -cup. 


danger and almost death to the knight who 
had befriended me, and whom I had loved at 
first sight. 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE TRIAL. 

The court was little and much crowded. 
Moreover, the day lowered and was lost in 
night in the groined roof overhead, and the 
windows, fine and pointed, admitted but lit- 
tle light. There were some notable gay 
gowns on the ladies, but I confess I was hard- 
ly conscious of that same, nor of the furred 
and velveted judges with their flat caps, al- 
beit their sombre air added to the mournful- 
ness of the scene. 

Where I sat, at the back of the court with 
Giovanni, I was conscious but of three faces 
in that crowd. 

One was the accused knight. He was pale, 
but bore himself well — nay, with such an air 
of innocence and brave youth that I mar- 
velled any could listen to so foul a charge 
against him. He was older than when I had 
85 


86 


The Trial. 


seen him, and he carried his dexter arm in 
a bandage because, I judged, of a wound re- 
ceived in the wars. He had not improved in 
fortunes since last we had met, for his gar- 
ments were yet stained with the wind and 
weather; but standing so, bare and golden- 
headed, to be tried for his life, he seemed to 
me to gather upon his crown all the light 
of that dolorous day. 

A moment I marvelled if he would see and 
know me. The next I knew he would have 
no eyes for me. He looked upwards like 
one praying, and I did not doubt but that he 
commended himself to God through Our 
Lady and the saints. 

But presently I saw another reason why 
he held his head above earth, for in a small 
and dark gallery I espied the face of Mis- 
tress Alice. 

It was in a swoon of suffering, and yet 
it was lit with an almost unearthly 
light. 

Truly as he looked to behold but her, so she 
beheld but him; and most piteous it was to 


The Trial. 87 

see the love and faith and sorrow in each 
face, and most inspiriting. 

But I did not stare at them, poor trne 
lovers ; and it seemed to me that barely any 
one in the court had found out so much as I 
had, the gallery being dark and the lady re- 
tired. And as I drew hack my unwilling 
eyes to the court I recognized with shudder- 
ing that lord whom I had last seen a mid- 
night murderer. 

His strange, pale-blue eyes roamed rest- 
lessly, and seemed to me set in a mask of 
ivory. As they fell upon the accused knight 
there came a flash in them like a glint of 
light on the smooth blade of a Toledo, and 
his lips curled backwards in an ugly smile, 
betraying evil teeth. 

I nerved myself to watch him, lest pres- 
ently when I needed nerve the memory of 
that night in Golden Cross should unman 
me, and, turning to Giovanni, I asked care- 
lessly enough who the lord might be that sat 
near the judges. 

“ ? Tis the Lord Selby,” he answered. “The 


88 


The Trial. 


same which was suitor for the hand of Mis- 
tress Danby.” 

“Then I marvel not,” said I calmly, “that 
she would have none of him. It seems to me 
an ill-favored countenance. How does it 
to thee, Giovanni?” 

“Hist,” said he, “the trial is beginning.” 

And then he held my hand in his and 
whispered : 

“Fear not, my Piers, for God is on the side 
of the innocent.” 

The same which I had been saying to my- 
self to keep my heart up, so that presently 
the warm and comforting sense of it stole 
into my spirit, and so far was I from being 
afeared that I but longed for the time when 
I should deliver that dear knight and lady 
from their anguish. But Giovanni had 
warned me to be patient, and to hear first 
what had to be alleged. 

I therefore sat quietly and as patient as I 
might while the case was set forth against my 
young knight. For first it was detailed that 
the gentleman, Sir William Danby, who had 


The Trial. 


89 


vanished with his trust, was greatly beloved 
of all, being of such piety, gentleness, and 
charity that the hardest heart could bear 
him no grudge. And the trust which he had 
received from holy Church in the troublous 
times was so secreted and hidden away with- 
in a vaulted chamber of the house, that 
not even his most trusted servant knew of 
its existence. It was known, indeed, only to 
the good knight himself, to his daughter, 
Mistress Alice, to his trusted friend, the 
Lord Selby, and to them who had given him 
the trust. 

Yet what more likely, asked the advocate, 
than that Mistress Alice had shared the se- 
cret with the young knight, Sir Anthony a- 
Dale, now charged with the matter, and 
who had a double reason for the crime be- 
cause of his hatred to the dead man who had 
withheld his daughter, and because of his 
own exceeding poverty, which barred him 
from the possession of the 1 dv? 

Anyhow on the very eve of the restoration 
o? the trust, now made possible by the ac- 


90 


The Trial. 


cession of our sovereign lady, Queen Mary, 
the treasure had vanished, and with it its an- 
cient custodian — who had in all probability 
perished in its defence. 

For on a certain night in the August by- 
gone Sir William Danby’s house of Ferrer’s 
Oak was raided, his servants laid in bonds, 
the vaulted chamber entered and sacked. 
And by-and-by, the plight of the servants be- 
ing discovered and they released, the knight 
was missing, nor could any trace of him he 
found, nor had been heard of since, nor 
the treasure. 

Yet had the crime been laid to no man’s 
charge, seeing how the country swarmed 
with bold beggars and armed villains since 
the suppression of the monasteries, had it 
not happed that the young knight Sir An- 
thony a-Dale, new-come from the wars and 
very poor, had endeavored to sell that 
precious piece of church plate famous as the 
lily-cup of Sainte-Croix, and, being charged 
with the possession thereof, had declared 
that he had found it in his haversack after 


The Trial. 


9i 


he had been sleeping in a wood, and by whom 
placed there he could not say, unless per- 
chance ’twas a child he had befriended, and 
whom he had parted with after a few hours 
and a meal shared together. 

Then there came a number of witnesses. 
The Abbot of Sainte-Croix, the Prior of St. 
Mary Bennett’s, the Abbot of St. Martin 
without the walls, and many another, to de- 
pone to the trust, for it seemed that on a 
day of each year these met at Ferrer’s Oak, 
and after dinner, the servants being with- 
drawn, had gone to the strong chamber by a 
secret way and had witnessed that their seals 
were yet unbroken; and had done the like 
but a week before the good knight and the 
chests disappeared. 

Then came the servants, one by one, to 
testify to the midnight outrage and robbery. 

Then he who hung out the golden balls 
of Lombardy for a sign, and to whom Sir 
Anthony had offered the cup. 

Then they called Sir Giles, Sir Anthony’s 
brother, and when I saw him I felt he would 


92 


The Trial. 


do the young knight no good, for, pale with 
anger, and spluttering in his heard that he 
should be there, he gave his brother as ill a 
name as ever I heard. Little was he, fierce, 
with the red eyes of a ferret, and short, bris- 
tling red hair; it was a marvel the same 
mother had borne both. 

And while he spewed bitterness upon his 
own the young knight never relaxed the 
glory of sorrow and love that was in his face, 
so that, looking at it framed in its flowing 
golden hair, I thought of a St. Michael tram- 
pling on demons the which being in Gio- 
vanni’s chamber, and felt that he was beyond 
the malice of men, being safe in his trust and 
love of God and his lady. 

Then came the Lord Selby, and albeit he 
seemed an unwilling witness, and acted to be 
a generous one, his testimony was worse than 
that of the malevolent brother, for it seemed 
to be drawn from him by force that the good 
knight, Sir William Danby, knew ill of the 
prisoner and distrusted him, and was sore 
afraid lest by guile and subtlety he should ex- 


The Trial. 


93 


tort from Mistress Alice the secret of the 
treasure. And also it seemed that the por- 
tion of many hundred guineas which was to 
he the lady’s dower had gone with the rest. 
But, said the knavish lord, that were the least 
of the wrongs, seeing that so fair and virtu- 
ous a lady needed no decking of gold and 
silver to make her acceptable to a husband. 
At which saying the ladies in the court 
sighed like a wood in May, when the silken 
leaves are new-come to the trees. 

“Myself,” he concluded, “would be loath 
to think so ill of a knight who once enjoyed 
a lovely lady’s favor, albeit he bewitched her 
from her natural love for her father and her 
obedience to her father’s will. And I pray 
he can prove that he was far away when this 
outrage was done, for verily, he who would 
steal from God’s Church would also injure 
and destroy even a knight so noble, so sim- 
ple, and venerable as my beloved friend Sir 
William Danby, and I pray such wickedness 
be not found in him before me. For, albeit 
he has been froward and evil-inclined from 


94 


The Trial. 


his youth, yet so sweet a lady’s kindness 
might well call out to him for her father’s 
honor and gray hairs.” 

And so the villain retired, veiling his eyes 
as he went. 

“Call Nicholas Carr, commonly known as 
Nick-o’-the-Fen!” shouted the court crier. 

There was a clamor and a stir without, and 
people craned their necks to see, for this, it 
was rumored, was the late-found witness 
against the prisoner, whose testimony was 
like to hang him. 

Then there shambled before the judges 
my roguish beggar, pulling his forelock and 
assuming a humility of aspect that in my 
eyes but made him more villainous. He was 
clad now like a yeoman, rather than a beg- 
gar; yet did he seem to me, despite his hon- 
est garb, villainy incarnate. 

“You are Nicholas Carr, commonly known 
as Nick-o’-the-Fen?” asked the advocate. 

“The same, worshipful master,” answered 
the rogue, whining. 

“A vagrant by profession?” 


The Trial. 


95 


“Alack, an honest poor man, hard-driven 
to live by the benevolence of Christian folk.” 

The oath was then given to him, and he 
was adjured in the name of Him who died 
on the rood to discover to the court the 
knowledge he had concerning the matter now 
before it. 

“I can prove,” said the rogue, his speech 
tripping him up in his eagerne^ to do evil, 
“that yonder malefactor whom men miscall 
a knight, was, on the morning after the rob- 
bery at Ferrer’s Oak, in the neighborhood 
thereof.” 

“Nicholas Carr,” said the advocate, “say 
no more than thy evidence. Sir Anthony 
a-Dale is yet innocent until this court de- 
clares him guilty.” 

“Alas! I meant no harm,” whined the 
knave, “but that my just anger overcame me. 
Well, worshipful gentlemen, I was that morn 
of August fifth in the bygone summer way- 
faring, with the design of craving work at 
some yeoman’s harvesting till it should 
please God to restore me my old means of 


96 


The Trial. 


subsistence at the hands of the saintly monks 
— now happily restored throughout the land. 

“I was nigh to Gorley Wood on the Ports- 
mouth Road in the hours of the early morn- 
ing, when I came upon a scene Ox ill-doing 
that stirred my blood to anger, for there I 
beheld a stout rogue of a lad — true gallows’- 
meat by the look of him — and he was ill- 
treating of a tyke, an ill-fashioned beast, that 
I dare swear had many a morsel from the 
calves of honest men. Nor would I have in- 
terfered to save this one, for a tyke is a thing 
I hate in a general way, but that I am a soft 
heart, and he that mishandled the beast had 
the worst countenance I ever saw. So, cry- 
ing on my patron St. Nicholas, I had at the 
villain, who, though young, far outmatched 
me, being of great frame, and with a jowl 
like to his tyke. 

“Yet, strong in striking for the right, I 
had overcome him at the first had not this 
second villain come by the way, singing a 
ribald song, and in disorder from his ill-do- 
ings of the night.” 


The Trial. 


97 


“Nicholas Carr,” again interrupted the 
advocate, “take heed what thou sayest. Thou 
mightst find thyself in the pillory if this gen- 
tleman he pronounced innocent.” 

“Alas, my heart bewrayeth my tongue!” 
said the knave. “But to my story. Then 
fell this — gentleman — upon me with mighty 
blows, and so belabored my poor body that I 
was like to die, the more that the villainous 
tyke did fasten on me like the ravening beast 
he was, and did devour my good hose of gray 
wool my mother made me, as well as three 
inches of my calf. Yet, with the might of 
ten I drove them off, and did send them and 
their beast crying for mercy into the heart 
of Gorley Wood, where I spared to follow 
them, being ever a man of peace.” 

“Then hold thy peace !” said the advocate 
with a sour smile, for Nick-o’-the-Fen seemed 
but started in his narrative. “Seest thou in 
this court that knight who came riding by 
Gorley Wood in the day-dawn of the fifth of 
August in the bygone year?” 

“Have I not said it?” returned the rogue. 


98 


The Trial. 


“There he is with the same evil face — nay, I 
forgot, the same honorable face that I re- 
member.” 

“Dost thou see in this court that youth 
whom thou didst first encounter?” asked the 
advocate for the prisoner. 

“That do I not,” he said, gazing about 
him; and as for me, I had stooped to lift 
Tray, who was crouched at my feet and 
growling low, as though he remembered 
Nick-o ? -the-Fen. 

“Nor yet,” he added, “do I wish to see him, 
for that,” said he, “he was the most ter- 
rifying countenance and the greatest bully 
for his youth I ever yet encountered.” 

“Call Piers Borrodaile l” said the crier of 
the court. 

Before the cries taken up outside had died 
away I had stood up and advanced to the 
raised place, with my little Tray in my arms. 

“Is this that youth?” asked the advocate. 

“I cannot doubt it,” said the rogue, un- 
abashed, “though ? tis grown somewhat 
smaller than I remember it. Pray you, wor- 


The Trial. 


99 


shipful master, to bid him keep his tyke at 
a distance.” 

I had much ado, indeed, to keep Tray 
from attacking his old enemy. 

Then, in the midst of the merry laughter 
that went about the court, I heard the chief 
judge order that Mck-o’-the-Fen be re- 
moved, and in no gentle voice. 

“ ’Twill be perjury and contempt of court 
for a ducat !” said one behind me. 

But I looked only to the advocate’s face, 
and my lips opened to answer the questions 
he should ask me. 


L of 0. 


CHAPTEE VIII. 


THE ACQUITTAL. 

“Thou art Piers Borrodaile?” said the ad- 
vocate. 

“The same — a man of Hants,” I replied. 

“Thy avocation?” 

“’Prentice to Master Giovanni Battista 
Ferrari, the Queen’s orfever.” 

“Ah, Master Giovanni — ’tis an honorable 
man. How, Piers Borrodaile, take the oath, 
and afterwards declare thyself not only be- 
fore this court, hut before the tribunal 
of Heaven, of all thou knowest in this 
matter.” 

“I will declare myself truly,” I said, kiss- 
ing with affection the crucifix which was held 
towards me and taking the oath. 

“How, how comest thou in this business?” 

“I am he,” I answered, “who placed the 
golden chalice known as the lily-cup of 


IOO 


The Acquittal. 


IOI 


Sainte-Croix within the haversack of the 
young knight Sir Anthony a-Dale .” 

As I said it a murmur ran round the 
court, and many craned forward to look at 
me, but I was only conscious of the prisoner’s 
face, as he lifted it higher, with an expres- 
sion as of one in an ordeal on whose side God 
has declared Himself. 

“With what design didst thou place it 
there?” 

“Because I loved him. Because he had 
saved me and my poor old dog Tray from 
Nick-o’-the-Fen, who had set on us for the 
little we carried, and had nigh made an 
end of us when God and the knight inter- 
vened.” 

“How earnest thou in possession of this 
precious relic?” 

“I had it from the treasure-chest which 
was in Sir William Danby’s keeping. I took 
it but to gaze on it, being enamored of its 
beauty, and it was left in my hands. I had 
no thought of making it my own.” 

“Where didst thou see the treasure-chest, 


102 The Acquittal. 

and come so close to it as to handle its con- 
tents?” 

“In the refectory of the Abbey of Golden 
Cross at midnight on the fourth of August 
in the year bygone.” 

“Ah! the treasure is hidden in Golden 
Cross?” 

“Why, yes ; in the moat, hard by the port- 
cullis.” 

The court listened breathless, but my eyes 
were on the advocate’s face; yet was I con- 
scious of a little cry in the gallery overhead 
that smote me like a dagger. 

“Tell thy story now, Piers Borrodaile, 
without further ado.” 

“Alas! my lord,” said I, looking Co the 
chief judge, “for sweet mercy’s sake, ere I 
am embarked upon my tale wilt thou send 
one to see to a lady who is in the gallery 
above thy head, and whose heart I must 
needs wound.” 

“Who is this lady?” asked the judge, sur- 
prised. 

“Your lordship, it is Mistress Alice Danby, 


The Acquittal. 


103 


the daughter of the good knight, Sir William 
Danby.” 

There was a sudden cry from the prisoner, 
and turning, I saw him lift himself as he 
would have flown, while the chains clanked 
on his wrists. 

“Help her!” he cried. “For the sake of 
Him who died on the tree ! Dear Mother of 
God, she is dying !” 

There was a grave commotion in the court, 
and the hurrying of feet upon the winding 
staircase that led to the gallery. Presently 
an official of the court entered. 

“The lady has but swooned, my lord,” he 
said, “and is now coming to under the dili- 
gent care of Dr. Ambrosius, the leech. There 
are friends with her, and she will be well 
taken care of.” 

With that I embarked on my narrative and 
told what I had seen in the Abbey of Golden 
Cross, as I have already told it in this story 
— yea, to the sorrowful ending — with the 
murder of the venerable knight, Mistress Al- 
ice’s father. While I told it you could have 


104 


The Acquittal. 


heard a pin drop in the hall, and in the sur- 
prise and excitement one or two noble ladies 
were carried out swooning. 

“Roger Darley,” said the prisoner’s advo- 
cate when I had concluded, “is a broken gen- 
tleman of Kent, who, ’twas well known, was 
joined with robbers and evil-doers, having 
been led astray, ’twas said, by certain men of 
fashion, his associates. The same was some- 
what suspected of this crime, but ’twas found 
he had disbanded his fellows and disappeared 
— no doubt over seas, where there is pillage 
and plunder for such rogues as he in these 
fighting days. But now, Piers Borrodaile, 
hast thou seen that mask who unveiled him- 
self at midnight in the Abbey of Golden 
Cross, and whom thou accusest of the hei- 
nous crime of the murder of the good knight, 
Sir William Danby, in addition to sacrilege, 
robbery, and house-breaking?” 

“I have seen him,” said I. 

“When, and where?” 

“Why, in this court, where he was seated 
a little while since to the right of the wor- 


The Acquittal. 


105 


shipful judges. I think he must have gone 
out in the commotion that followed Mistress 
Danby’s swoon. He is called by men the 
Lord Selby.” 

At that there was a great excitement in 
the court; indeed, men said afterwards they 
had never seen the like, and during it the 
judges consulted hastily together, and pres- 
ently messengers were sent to apprehend the 
Lord Selby and bring his body before the 
court. Meanwhile the sun had come out, 
and its rays had gathered about the prison- 
er’s hair and had made him a glory. Seeing 
which, the people in the court cried out that 
the Lord had declared for him, and, pressing 
about him, there were such plaudits and hon- 
est handshakings as ever were known. 

When quiet had been restored the chief of 
the judges spoke. 

“The finding of this court is that thou 
art innocent, Sir Anthony a-Dale. There- 
fore, go as an innocent man; yet hold 
thyself in readiness to bear witness at the 
new trial. And thou, Master Piers Bor- 


io6 


The Acquittal. 


rodaile, we shall look to the Queen’s or- 
fever to produce thee when thou art need- 
ed. Meanwhile thou wilt accompany the 
sheriff and his men, to discover to them 
that place where the treasure is buried, 
and where the body of Sir William Danby 
lieth.” 

Yet before I left that court I had a most 
tender experience, for, being called to a 
chamber, I found there Mistress Danby and 
Sir Anthony a-Dale. And she, running to 
me, kissed me many times and blessed me, 
with the tears flowing down her cheeks. And 
the knight also kissed me and swore an eter- 
nal friendship — which was mighty strange 
and pleasant to me, a mere lad of the people. 

Afterwards I rode with the sheriff and his 
men to Golden Cross, and they found not 
only the treasure-chests, but the body of the 
good knight, as I had said. To him they 
gave Christian burial, and the plate was re- 
stored to its holy purposes. 

Yet there was no further trial, for the 
Lord Selby had disappeared as though from 


The Acquittal. 


107 


the face of the earth. Whereof Giovanni, 
who hath knowledge of the world as well as 
of the spirit, said: 

“ ? Tis as well, little Piers, for if his own 
evil conscience had not so daunted him that 
he fled, thou hadst been sore put to it, a little 
lad like thee, to prove it against a great lord. 
But now he has tried himself, and pro- 
nounced himself guilty.” 

But years after Mistress Alice and Sir 
Anthony were wed, and their children about 
them, I came upon another actor in that 
bloody drama. 

Queen Mary died, alas! worn out with 
cares and sorrows, and her sister, Elizabeth 
Tudor, came to the throne. And then fol- 
lowed the overthrow of religion and the per- 
secution of the saints ; and many a great ab- 
bot and noble lady have I followed on the 
cart to Tyburn Tree, that I might win their 
blessing at the last. 

Sometimes we thought, Giovanni and I, of 
travelling to Milan and ending our days amid 
the things of faith and beauty. We have 


io8 


The Acquittal. 


never married, nor are like to; and Giovan- 
ni’s hair is now white, and in mine the gray 
begins to sprinkle. 

But when we have thought to go it has al- 
ways ended that we stayed. For Giovanni, 
being a well-known artist, in spite of him- 
self was safe, and of me ’tis said, though I 
do not believe it, that I am little less than 
he. Therefore, though we longed for the 
patronage of the royal Italian princes, and 
to make our ewers and goblets under that 
sapphire sky, we yet stayed — and why I shall 
explain. 

Giovanni, being very wealthy, was enabled 
to purchase for many of those blessed pris- 
oners alleviations of their hard lot, and pres- 
ently it became so dear to us to wait along 
that way which bloomed with the roses of 
martyrdom, and comfort them who were on 
their way to eternal life, that human peace 
and honor seemed vain. 

Now one day, and it was a snowy day of 
winter, we waited with a great crowd to see 
the martyrs go by; and as the carts passed 


The Acquittal. 109 

we, with many another, knelt and cried aloud 
for a blessing, and then hastened with the 
rest to the gallows’ foot, so that we might dip 
our handkerchiefs in the blood of martyrs. 

Now, there came by a hurdle hearing a 
number of friars, Franciscans in their brown 
habits, Dominicans in the white, Carthusians 
of St. Bruno, Cistercians of St. Bernard, 
and what not — a veritable bouquet for 
heaven. 

There in the midst saw I a Carthusian lay- 
brother The very flesh seemed to have 
wasted off his hones in prayer and penance, 
and it seemed to me that his spirit must take 
flight ere the axe of the executioner had vio- 
lently broken down its walls. 

The years had passed and he was incred- 
ibly changed — a mere white vessel of a man 
through which the soul shone like a lighted 
taper. Yet here was he whom justice had 
sought in the old days and not found, be- 
cause Love had first hunted him down. 

It was that Boger Darley who was once a 
captain of robbers. 


no 


The Acquittal. 


Just opposite us the hurdles halted. I 
fell in the snow and kissed the beads of his 
rosary. 

“Flower of the martyrs,” I said, “bless me, 
and remember me when you are come with 
Christ into His kingdom!” 

He lifted his feeble hands. 

“A great sinner, but a dying man, blesses 
you, son,” he said, “and desires your pray- 
ers.” 

I did not call him by the name he bore of 
old. Surely, he had left the old sin and the 
old life behind him, and had won to sanctity 
through penance if ever man had. 

Afterwards we obtained his body through 
a complaisant jailor, and laid it in holy 
ground. There the lilies sweetly bloom 
above him, and the simple country folk who 
have yet kept the faith come to pray. 

Myself have found a touch of his beads 
sovereign for the ague, whereby it seems to 
me that surely God has chosen him. 


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9 


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1 o 


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13 


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